Page 23 of Breakaway

I lean in. “Maybe, but actually leading in something other than taunting counts, too.”

“And you’re a saint?” He laughs shortly. “Say what you will about me, but I’m not the one who pulls my gloves off at the slightest provocation.”

Brandon is the kind of player I can’t stand; he chirps his head off, but at the end of the day, he won’t throw an elbow when necessary. I know the college rules, but it’s still hockey; it’s a physical game, and hits are part of the game.

Before I can reply, Remmy skates over, throwing his arms around us. We get caught up in the celebration, and it’s for the best, anyway; Brandon and I have never been best buddies. If Coach ends up making him captain, it’ll be a bitter pill to swallow. I can only hope that games like this one, as well as the volunteering, show him I’m willing to play by the rules. Whatever the hell allowed me to get into the zone—Ryder’s lecture, or the skating class, or even my hookup with Penny—I’m grateful for it. I haven’t felt this good about my play since early last season.

Coach Ryder gathers us around for a post-game debrief while we’re still in our skates and pads. When his hand comes down on my shoulder, clapping firmly, I drop my gaze, so the guys don’t see the flush on my face. “Great effort, men,” he says. “All of you played your hearts out and got us a great win to take into tomorrow’s game. Callahan, excellent job taking advantage of the power play, and great assist by Bell. Enjoy the win, gentlemen, but make sure you stay focused on tomorrow, too.”

Evan grins at me. I knock our shoulders together.

“McFucking McKee!” Jean shouts in his hoarse French-Canadian accent. We all join in, putting our fists together and cheering before breaking away to hit the showers and change. I catch Coach’s eye once more; he nods before disappearing into his office.

I bite the inside of my cheek to keep from smiling too hard and shoot off a text to the family group chat:

1st W.

Then I head for the showers. There’s a game tomorrow, sure, but tonight? I’m using the end of my hookup curse to huddle up with a puck bunny or two... and to get Little Miss Red Ryder-hood out of my head.

***

When I step out of the locker room, however, it’s Seb waiting for me instead of a hopeful puck bunny.

“If you want him, he’ll be at Haverhill House,” he says to a girl who pouts as he grabs my arm.

“Haverhill House?” I repeat, raising my eyebrows. I’ve only been to a couple of parties there. I fit in better with the frat crowd, even though, despite repeated attempts at recruiting, I’m not a member of any of them. “We didn’t have plans.”

“Yes, we did,” he says, dragging me through the knot of bodies; my teammates and their partners and hookups—current and hopeful—are crowding the hallway. “Important plans.”

I shake him off and stop walking. “What?”

“Jesus,” he says. “Stop being so dense. I’ll tell you in the car.”

“You’re acting weird, you know,” I grumble as I follow him out of the building. “What’s going on, you chasing a chick at that party? It’s not our usual crowd.”

“Not yours, maybe,” he says. “But guess who got an invite and is currently in everyone’s Snap stories?”

My eyes widen. “No.”

“We need to find her. The last thing I saw, she was—”

“No,” I interrupt. “Don’t even.”

“There were body shots involved.”

I scrub my hand over my face. “I thought the Haverhill parties were supposed to be exclusive.”

“Someone invited a bunch of freshmen. It’s been a mess since the doors opened, apparently.”

“Shit.” I yank open the passenger door of Seb’s Jeep and hop in. “Doesn’t she have a game tomorrow?”

“It’s not until the evening.” Seb lowers the radio as he turns out of the parking lot. I’m still full of adrenaline from the game, so I can’t sit still; the entire drive, I’m tapping my feet, drumming my fingers over my knees. Izzy is probably fine, but she’s a party girl, and sometimes she’s not as careful as she should be. You never know what kinds of assholes you might run into at a big university. When she was in high school, our parents had to bail her out on more than one occasion, and those were just high school parties. Now that she’s here at McKee, they’re counting on me to keep an eye on her. I’ll need to deliver her to Long Island in one piece come Thanksgiving.

When we get to the row of houses, light spills out of the one in the center, along with the thump of music. Seb finds a patch of grass to park on. I barely wait until he turns off the car before I’m slamming the door shut and stalking across the lawn. It’s a chilly night, the start of October turning from golden days to autumn, but I suppose it’s hoping against hope that my sister came to this party dressed in a parka.

At the door, a bored-looking kid wearing glasses and a tweed jacket glances at us. “Names?” he asks.

“Fuck off,” I say as I shoulder past him. I’d rather go to a frat with an open keg than beg for a watered-down rum coke from a philosophy major high on shrooms. This first room must be the dance floor, because we walk straight into a knot of sweaty bodies.

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